


take our dream and make it fate

by fireflyslove



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale just wants to hug him, Crowley has a lot of Thoughts and Feelings, Declarations Of Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 15:05:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19275775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireflyslove/pseuds/fireflyslove
Summary: Aziraphale is frankly appalled.Or, Crowley up and disappears for a week, and Aziraphale is Extremely Concerned.Or, Crowley's not great at talking about his Feelings.





	take our dream and make it fate

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiiii. I'm here with everyone else. 
> 
> OK and also, whenever Crowley calls Aziraphale 'Zira'? Yeah, it kills me everytime because it's SO FUCKIN SOFT. 
> 
>  
> 
> Title from The Band Perry's Run Away

Aziraphale is frankly appalled. 

-

It starts about three weeks after the Apocawasn’t. Crowley has always been a fidgety sort, but he’s practically bouncing off the walls these days. Aziraphale has tried suggesting just about everything he can think of, picnics, long walks, tempting small children into silly things, but nothing seems to be helping. He knows Crowley sleeps, an unusual thing for a celestial being, angel or demon. But if Crowley were human, the bags under his eyes (not very well hidden by the sunglasses) would be dead giveaways that he’s not sleeping very well, if at all.

Six millennia of history has given Aziraphale a sense of Crowley’s quirks, but this has him perplexed. After they returned from their trials, after lunch at the Ritz, they had spent a few days spectacularly drunk in the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop. Crowley had spent most of the next week lounging shadily in and on various furniture in the shop and the apartment above it. Aziraphale wasn’t going to complain, he’d readily admit he felt better being able to see (or at least sense) Crowley’s presence, that the legions of Hell hadn’t dragged him back in a sudden fit of revenge. And ostensibly, it gave him someone to talk to about the new books that  _ whatever _ Adam had done had put in the shop. 

Crowley didn’t seem to be listening half the time, but he would occasionally drop a comment, usually inane, and Aziraphale’s lips would quirk in quiet amusement.

And then Crowley disappeared for an entire week. Aziraphale didn’t worry for the first two days, he’d gone literal years without seeing Crowley before, but this was different. He stopped by Crowley’s apartment, but the demon wasn’t in residence. The Bentley was parked in its usual place, and as far as Aziraphale could tell, it hadn’t moved in days. 

Crowley showed up on the eighth day, drunk and sullen. He wasn’t usually sullen when he was drunk, but he was in a right mood this time. Aziraphale had just finished shutting the shop for the night and was retiring to the apartment above to drink cocoa and read a book (or, in reality, stare at the book and fret about Crowley) when he found Crowley sitting at the well-worn table in the small kitchen, a bottle in front of him. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, dropping the book on the nearest available surface. “You had me worried.”

“Ssssorry,” Crowley said. “I was jussst a little dissstracted.” 

“Are you quite alright?” Aziraphale asked, coming to stand just in front of Crowley’s chair.

“I’m fine,” Crowley bit off, and then took a long swig directly from the bottle. 

“Perhaps you should lay off the drinking?” Aziraphale suggested delicately.

Crowley screwed up his face, “Whassit with everyone tryin’ to tell me what t’ do?” he spat, standing. “I shouldn’t’ve come here. Ssstupid. Exsssscuse me.” He brushed past Aziraphale, headed for the stairs.

“Crowley! Wait! What-” Aziraphale said, but Crowley was already gone. 

Aziraphale sat down heavily on the chair Crowley had vacated, and glanced over at the bottle, which was currently filling itself back up. He almost went after Crowley then, but something (guilt? fear?) held him in place. He stayed there the rest of the night, staring at the amber liquid. It was only when morning light slanted in through the kitchen window that he realized any time had passed. 

He went through the mechanical routines of his daily life, but even his “for special occasions only” indulgence of whipped cream and waffles for breakfast tasted like salt and sat leaden in his stomach until he simply willed it away. 

He didn’t bother opening the shop that day, nor any for the next six, instead, he waded listlessly through the stacks, opening and closing books at random. He’s not quite aware of what he’s waiting for, but when a particular engine noise rumbles by and his head snaps around, looking for the glossy black of the Bentley. It’s not the Bentley, but Aziraphale’s stomach leapt into his throat anyway. 

“That’s enough,” he finally said, putting the book he was holding down on its stack. He grabbed his coat against the dreary weather, the blustery sort that made you want to stay inside with a good book and a hot drink, and went out into it. 

Strictly speaking, it was a fair distance to Crowley’s flat, but when an angel was on a mission, reality tended to bend around them, so Aziraphale found himself standing outside the door in a matter of moments. He raised a fist to knock on the door, but thought better of it, and miracled the lock open, willing the door to open silently. 

It swung open to reveal an apartment in disarray. He was vaguely aware of what the flat looked like under normal circumstances (spartan and dark), but Aziraphale was fairly certain the overturned furniture was unusual. There were bottles scattered across the floor, but upon closer inspection, they all appeared to be full, or at least refilled. He let the door close behind him, again silent on its hinges 

The rest of the flat was in similar disarray, paintings knocked sideways on their hangings, furniture out of place, and most distressingly, the plants. Aziraphale knew Crowley kept plants, and had briefly glimpsed the forest of green on his few illicit visits here before, but the destruction before him was gut wrenching. Piles of leaves and bare stumps of plants littered the atrium, ankle deep. 

A noise from beyond a closed door drew Aziraphale’s attention away from the carnage at his feet. It was a broken sort of noise that Aziraphale took a few seconds to process as a sob. Aziraphale pushed open the door, which he absently noticed was to the bedroom, and found Crowley. 

The demon was hunched over on the floor, his wings manifested and pulled tight around himself. His wings were in an even worse state than his flat, Aziraphale could see broken shafts and swaths of missing feathers from where he was standing. Aziraphale could feel the misery rolling in waves off Crowley, but he doesn’t even hesitate, stepping forward to place a hand flat between Crowley’s wings. The demon stiffened under his hand.

“Go away,” he said.

“No,” Aziraphale said. 

“Why?” Crowley asked, and turned to look over his shoulder. His eyes were a brilliant gold against lids red rimmed from crying.

“Why do you want me to?” Aziraphale asked, confused.

“ ‘M not worth it,” Crowley muttered, pulling his wings over his head. “Should leave and save yourself.”

Aziraphale huffed a genuinely surprised laugh. “Crowley, I think it’s rather late for that sentiment.”

“ ‘s not too late for you,” Crowley said. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, kneeling down and wrapping his arms around the huddled form of the demon, wings and all. “Please, tell me what you’re talking about.”

Crowley’s body stiffened further, all hard long lines and quivering muscles. He mumbled something that Aziraphale didn’t catch. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, and a shudder went through Crowley at the affectionate name. “I just want to  _ help _ .”

Crowley keened softly. “That’s exactly the problem. You’re too  _ good _ . It’d kill you.” 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything, merely pressed his forehead against the back of Crowley’s neck, waiting for him to get the words out.

“You were dead,” he whispered. “I thought you were dead.”

_ Oh _ .

“I didn’t know how to go on without you. The end of the world was in a few hours and you were  _ gone _ . I don’t know how to live in a world without you in it,” Crowley said. 

“Darling,” Aziraphale said, the endearment rolling off his tongue without thought, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You defied Heaven,” Crowley said. “You  _ know _ what happens when you defy Heaven.”

“They tried to set me on fire, and it didn’t work,” Aziraphale said. “Besides, I rather dislike it up there anyway.”

“It’s dreadful,” Crowley said. “They both are. But I’m not talking about the hellfire, Aziraphale. What happens when an Angel  _ defies  _ God?” 

_ Oh. _

“They Fall. You wouldn’t survive it,” Crowley said. “Hell would eat you alive.”

“Oh  _ Crowley, _ ” Aziraphale said. “I had no idea.” 

“Look what they kicked me out for,” Crowley said. “Asking questions. You go and defy God Themself, and now you’re fraternizing with a  _ demon _ .”

“Crowley, I’ve been fraternizing with a demon for the better part of six thousand years,” Aziraphale said. “And there’s never been any hint of Falling. And not to put too fine a point on it, but don’t you think if it were to happen, it would’ve happened during Armageddon, not weeks later?” 

All at once, the tension ran out of Crowley’s body, and he melted into Aziraphale’s arms. 

“You’re too good,” he said. 

Aziraphale chuckled. “Besides, I rather  _ like _ fraternizing with demons. Well, one demon.”

Crowley performed some sort of serpentine maneuver with his body until he was face to face with the angel. He clutched at Aziraphale’s back with his hands, fingers scrabbling at the cloth. Aziraphale brushed his hands over Crowley’s wings soothingly, and then on an impulse, manifested his own. They were bigger than Crowley’s, and the room was suddenly filled with suffused light as he wrapped them around both of them. 

The mere act of summoning his wings cracked reality just a tiny bit, and he could feel his Grace seeping through. He quickly tried to pull it in before it could touch Crowley. It wouldn’t truly hurt him, but surely it would sting. 

“Don’t,” Crowley said, his face buried against Aziraphale’s neck. “Please.”

They stayed like that for a long while, wrapped in Aziraphale’s wings, until Crowley’s breathing evened out and he finally stopped intermittently sobbing. Finally, he leaned back from Aziraphale, just slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For all of it.”

“Oh Crowley.” Aziraphale said, bringing a hand up to wrap around Crowley’s face. “What brought this on?” 

Crowley hunched in on himself again. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t you  _ dare _ shut me out again.”

Crowley glanced at his face and then looked away again, his expression shuttered. “You’ll leave if I tell you,” he muttered.

“I promise you that I won’t,” Aziraphale said. 

“You will though,” Crowley said. 

“Well, at least give me the chance,” Aziraphale said. Whatever it is, clearly it’s dire.

Crowley took a deep breath, a human habit he had adopted millennia ago. “I love you, Zira.” 

_ Oh. _

Aziraphale was momentarily at a loss for words, he hadn’t expected  _ this _ . “I love you, too, Crowley.” 

Crowley scoffed. “Of course you do,” he said. “Angels are literally made of love. You can’t  _ not _ love me. It’s not in your nature.”

“I assure you, I can  _ not _ love something if I want to,” Aziraphale said. “Certain  _ fucking _ archangels come to mind. But you miss my meaning. I’m  _ in _ love with you.”

This startled Crowley into looking back at Aziraphale’s face. “What?” 

“I have been for several decades,” Aziraphale said. “I just didn’t… well.”

“Didn’t think a demon could love?” Crowley asked, a bite of sarcasm in his voice.

“Didn’t think  _ you _ would love  _ me _ ,” Aziraphale said. 

“Oh, angel,” Crowley said. “I’ve loved you for a long time. Wait, did you say  _ decades? _ ”

“Since the church and the Nazis,” Aziraphale said. “How long for you?” 

Crowley scrunched up his face, “A few millennia,” he said under his breath. 

“That long?” Aziraphale said.

“That long,” Crowley said. “Why do you think I wanted you to run away with me?” 

Aziraphale said nothing, only pulled Crowley closer. 

Another long moment of silence passed between them, while they clutched at each other. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “We should do something about this mess.”

“Oh no,” Crowley said. “My  _ plants _ .”

They rose and went to the atrium, Aziraphale’s wing still wrapped tightly around Crowley. He looked over at the demon and saw tears threatening again as Crowley surveyed the damage. 

“What did I  _ do _ ?” he whispered brokenly. 

It was the matter of a thought for Aziraphale to miracle the plants back into life, the leaves returning to where they were cut, the space once again lush and green. Crowley stepped out of the shelter of Aziraphale’s wing to go caress the plants. 

“I’m sorry,” he said to them. “I’m so sorry.”

The plants, usually silent and motionless in his presence, curve toward him, and toward Aziraphale. They’re covered in new blooms, and Crowley turned back to Aziraphale. 

“Thank you,” he said. “For all of it.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said. “Now let’s get the rest of it taken care of.”

They could snap their fingers and set it to rights, but it seemed necessary to use their hands to physically put the flat back to a semblance of order. 

Aziraphale stayed close to Crowley, always touching him, whether it was a wing brushing against his side, a hand trailed down the back of his arm, or a foot pressing against another foot. When at last they sat the (frankly hideous) couch up on its feet, Aziraphale pushed Crowley gently between the shoulders back toward his bedroom.

“Angel?” Crowley asked, concern tinging his voice. 

“We’re going to have to do something about your wings,” Aziraphale said. “I can’t miracle those better.” 

Crowley obediently (well, as obedient as Crowley  _ could _ ) followed Aziraphale’s instructions. He sat in a newly miracled chair and spread his wings. Aziraphale sunk his fingers into the feathers closest to Crowley’s shoulders, the downy texture warm and soft against his skin. In the light his own wings cast, Crowley’s wings weren’t so much black as iridescent, the same way colors as a crow’s, actually. 

Aziraphale took his time, straightening every feather and shaft, working feather oil into every surface. There wasn’t much he could do about the missing patches, but he soothed the skin underneath as best he could. Meanwhile, any remaining tension drained out of Crowley’s body and his breath went deep and even. He wasn’t sleeping, but his eyes fluttered open and closed intermittently. 

Aziraphale stepped around in front of Crowley to work the underside of one of the feathers, and the demon suddenly moved to kneel in front of the angel. Aziraphale froze, unsure of what he saw in Crowley’s upturned face. Crowley leaned forward and pressed his head against Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair, and the demon shuddered delicately. 

Aziraphale tugged gently, and got Crowley to his feet. The demon was slightly taller than the angel, but Aziraphale still held onto his head as he pulled Crowley’s face toward his. 

Their lips met in the chastest of kisses. Crowley’s knees threatened to go out on him, but he chased after Aziraphale’s lips with his own, and the angel obliged him. It was more than just their physical bodies touching, their metaphysical selves were engaged in an analogous activity, flirting with something deeper and more powerful. Aziraphale’s Grace crackled along Crowley’s being, and he felt like he was being engulfed in a static shock. 

Too soon for Crowley’s liking, Aziraphale pulled back. 

“You need sleep, darling,” he said. 

“Demons don’t need sleep,” Crowley said. 

“That may be, but  _ you _ need sleep,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley stuck his tongue out at Aziraphale. “Were you always like this?” 

“Yes.”

Crowley snapped his fingers and he was suddenly out of his customary black clothes and into … black silk pajamas, his wings demanifested. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “I… well, no matter.”

“What?” Crowley asked, voice rising.

“Oh, I just miss your wings is all,” Aziraphale said, brushing a thumb over Crowley’s cheek. 

An inaudible  _ pop _ and they’re back, folded against Crowley’s back. They’re not tightly held against his body, but instead set relaxed and out of the way. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, and gave Crowley a wide smile. 

Crowley smiled back, a genuine thing that changed his whole face. 

“Now, into bed,” Aziraphale ordered.

“Angel, if you wanted to get me into bed, all you had to do was tell me,” Crowley said.

“That’s for later,” Aziraphale said, his voice darkened with just a  _ hint _ of … something. (Crowley would swear it was Lust, but Lust was a Sin, and angels didn’t Sin. Then again, angels didn’t fall in love with demons…)

“Oh,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale twitched his nose at Crowley, who had climbed into the bed, and was lying directly in the middle. The angel toed off his shoes and walked up to the side of the bed. It was truly decadent, and he tried (not very successfully) to ignore what other things Crowley might have done with other people in it. The dark blue sheets were silk (of course) and there were at least eighteen pillows. 

“Scoot over,” Aziraphale said, making a shooing gesture with his hands.

“You’re gonna?” Crowley said, already moving. 

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said, climbing under the covers. He extended a wing over the pillows, an invitation. 

Crowley took the hint and curled up along Aziraphale’s side, his head resting on the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale’s hand returned to Crowley’s hair, stroking softly. Crowley made a sound of contentment, and his eyes fluttered shut. 

Aziraphale was sure he was asleep, and had just miracled a book into existence (actually, he had transported it from its place on his bedside table) when Crowley spoke. 

“Zira?” he said, voice slurred with sleepiness. 

“Yes, darling?” 

“You gonna be here when I wake up?” 

“Of course.”

“Thanksssss. Love you.”

“I love you too.” 

He curled his wing back around to engulf Crowley’s now-sleeping form, the ends of their feathers mixing, snow white against iridescent black. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> 80% sure this'll have a sequel because I'm getting HOT VIBES of sub!Crowley that just didn't fit here and also I have Ideas.
> 
> I can be found anywhere a wing manifests @fireflyslove


End file.
